Meet Our Neighbor, Noah.

One of the real delights of springtime is having the windows open again so you can spy and eavesdrop on your eccentric neighbors. The man who lives in the lawn adjacent to ours (the site of this year's Blackbird Convention, you'll remember) provides endless treats when the warm weather starts.


We call him Noah because he keeps a large boat in his backyard, even though we live in a decidedly landlocked part of the country.

 


From time to time, Noah hauls his boat from one side of the yard to the other. This weekend was pretty busy.




Later, while digging his garden patch with some loud, gas-powered machinery, Noah even began praying quite loudly when something caused the machine to stop working.
 

What a delight neighbors are!

Your Father's Full-Time Job (Hopefully).

You may have noticed, children, that your friends' fathers are surprisingly boring. At the risk of shocking you, I feel it is my duty to reveal that these men are not, in fact boring. In reality, it's your father who is the outlier.



That's right, kids. What you have perceived as "normal" your whole lives is considered by most people to be "wildly entertaining."

Which is why your father goes out in public, stands in front of rooms full of people, and tells jokes. He just has that much comedic joy to share. Now I need you to go next door and apologize to Mr. Helms about yawning while he told you about his tomato garden.

Being American.

Children, it is not often that I give much thought to my nationality, except to feel mildly embarrassed about it while reading about Canada's healthcare system. But today, that all changed. For today, I received in the mail my very own copy of the Constitution of the United States of America.

This semi-sacred document was a gift from my dear friends at the American Civil Liberties Union, who apparently believe that my theoretical support of their organization will translate to financial support, which is not the case, despite the charming gift they sent me.



Naturally, I began reading my Constitution at once.



You can probably guess which Amendment I was reading when this image was captured completely by chance by your father, who happened to be strolling around our house with my camera, seeking out things to photograph.



But of course, my favorite Amendment is this one. Most likely, children, the passage of this very Amendment will be at least indirectly responsible for your existence*.

*If you're not sure what I mean by that, go back outside and enjoy what's left of your innocence.

Big Stomach, Small Stomach.

Sometimes I play a game where I photograph myself in two different ways. For example, this is my stomach pushed out (what I like to call "big stomach").



This is my stomach sucked in ("small stomach").



Notice how my feet come into view in the second picture, as if they were the stars hidden behind a once-full moon. Or stomach. Also, notice how I can make my foot bones stand out like a witch's finger bones. Isn't the human body fascinating?

The Encroaching Clutter.

I have never won any awards for neatness, and if any of you do, children, it will be by sheer genetic fluke. Lately, though, I've noticed that the clutter around the house has been evolving, as if of its own accord.

It starts on my desk, which seems normal enough. Messy desks are par for the course for "creative" types. (Right?)



But then it hit the kitchen table, which seems like a slippery slope.



And then it hit the extra desk we keep in the kitchen, which itself is a form of clutter, as we didn't really need another desk, but the former tenant left it here, and it was a surface on which we could place things, so...



It has now found its way onto the coffee maker counter, and I don't think there's any chance it will stop spreading in the near future. I have surrendered to it, and assume that one day I will be washed out the front door on a wave of my own clutter. And that's how I'll know it's time to move.

Your Father Adopts a Hunting Hound.

After a riveting business trip during which I posted absolutely nothing about my everyday life on the road, I'm back in town and I've got lots to report.

Children, you know very well that I am highly allergic to animals of all kinds (as well as all things that bring joy to humans, including Christmas trees and possibly ice cream). However, your father does not seem to care.



In fact, this weekend, he adopted a hunting hound as his new Official Best Friend.

He also adopted a sidekick, in the form of an absurdly cute two-year-old girl. I can only imagine what world-saving adventures they will get up to in the coming months and years. What a team.

BIG News from Carbondale.

Living in a big city like Carbondale means that our lives proceed at the rate of approximately one thrill per minute--if not more.

This week was no exception, as you can see from the front page of the Carbondale Times, published every Wednesday, whether or not anything has happened in the interim:


Needless to say, children, what with the return of sliding weather, I've hardly had a chance to catch my breath.

(In real news, the farmer's market is now open and I bought some of the season's first spargel* on Saturday--splendid!)


*asparagus. I know one German word, and dammit, I'm going to use it when it comes up.

How to Beat the Corporations at Their Own Game.

Children. In case your father and I are dead and you are forced to live on your own without telling any adults about your predicament, rather than risk being separated in the state's foster care system, I have some important advice for you.

When washing the clothes, please note that the corporations that make laundry detergent try to trick you into using far more than you need for a single load by making caps much larger than a "single serving" of detergent.

Proof: this diagram included (in a very out-of-the-way place) on the back of a detergent bottle.


So save yourselves some serious money. Only use a fraction of the detergent, and get your clothes just as clean.


Another way to feel as if you are beating corporations at their own game is to put on pajamas and drink a beer in the middle of the afternoon, while rereading a favorite novel, even though you feel as if you should read one of the thousands of great novels that you haven't yet read.


I don't know if this has any actual effect on the corporations, but I'll let you know as more research becomes available.

What Things Look Like.

I'm not going to pretend that I'm one of those people who thinks things are just regular looking. I mean, I don't just look at a slice of cauliflower and say to myself, "Oh, there's a slice of a vegetable that looks only like itself and nothing at all like a majestic albino tree growing by fractals from the earth."


That's just not who I am.

And when I see the poisonous purple shoots sprouting from a potato neglected on the shelf too long, I most certainly do not not think to myself that maybe this is what blind alien penguins would look like, if we ever found them out in space hurrying in a pack across their alien landscape.


So there. Now you know.

Eating Leaves.

One thing that hopefully has changed by the time you exist and are reading this is that your father often accuses me of "only eating leaves." As in, "All you ever eat is leaves!"

Of course, children, this couldn't be further from the truth. I also eat a number of roots and tubers, and occasionally a flower or two (including asparagus and broccoli).

Nevertheless, I admit that when he traveled to visit his brother (your Uncle Charles) last week, I found myself preparing an awful lot of "leafy" dinners.

Like this one, made of leaves on a bed of rice.


And this, composed of leaves and raisins and seeds.


And this one of leftover leaves with other leftover footstuffs.


OH MY GOD, I KNOW WHAT'S HAPPENING. This is like in On the Banks of Plum Creek, when the grasshoppers come and eat "every green thing" and the Ingalls family can't make a crop and then Mary gets the scarlet fever and it settles in her eyes and she goes BLIND!


AND I'M THE GRASSHOPPERS!!!!

... I'm so sorry, Mary. And I'm so ashamed.

Warmy-Coldy / Coldy-Warmy.

One of our favorite around-the-house games to play, children (as you may already know), is Warmy-Coldy / Coldy-Warmy. This game is intended for any of four situations:

1. A player is cold and wishes to become warm (Coldy-Warmy, Warmy-Coldy);
2. A player is warm and wishes to become cold (Warmy-Coldy, Coldy-Warmy);
3. A player is inexplicably both warm and cold at the same time, for example, her toes are cold while the rest of her is warm (Warmy-Warmy, Coldy-Coldy); or
   
4. A player is too sleepy (or drunk) to clearly articulate what's going on, but it definitely has something to do with temperature.

Throughout our marriage, we have had occasion to play Warmy-Coldy / Coldy-Warmy, most notably when we find ourselves only partially covered by an exceedingly warm sleeping bag...

... when we don't feel like forking over any more money than is absolutely necessary to the heating company...

... and when we find ourselves on a stunning beach in the middle of winter.

You will be relieved to know, children, that I am not naked in any of these pictures, but in one of them, I am wearing a nightgown that is entirely concealed by the sleeping bag.

Of course, your father contends that the only thermometer a "real man" needs is a container of water, because for "real men," there are only two temperatures: below freezing and mesh jersey weather. Is it weird that I already miss winter?

Lessons from Unexpected Places.

As you know from being raised by liberal poet hippies, the world is the best classroom of all. In order to get the most benefit out of the lessons your world is trying to teach you, it is important to keep your mind wide open and your eyes... wide open. Not very elegant, but there it is.

To show you what I mean by this, I'll show you some unexpected lessons I've learned in recent weeks, thanks to my strict open-mind/open-eye policies.

Lesson #1: Life is too short to waste time hating anyone.

While this lesson didn't come from the more subtle and/or natural sources that poets generally prefer (e.g. a meadow full of butterflies and daisies), it still hit me with its profundity. And as a bonus lesson, I got to learn how to say "kitchen" in Chinese!


Lesson #2: Ignoring that pain in your foot will only lead to a stress fracture.


And that's not going to win you any fashion contests. Instead of pretending everything's okay while you continue to run for eight months, why not go to a doctor? It might save you a lot of velcro-boot-wearing down the road.

Lesson #3: Some pancakes take longer to cook than others--but they still taste just as delicious when they're done.


You might think this is a lesson about patience or even about puberty, but really it's just about how to time the wake-up call you send up to your father and me when you're preparing our breakfast on weekends. Because frankly, we don't want to get out of bed until the pancakes are done. Period.

Lesson#4: When you find an establishment that seems to be named after the male version of yourself and serves one of your favorite beverages, go inside. You won't be disappointed.

Meet Your Grandparents! (Lemieux Edition)

You know how your maternal grandparents are in the future, but you've probably wondered what they were like in the past (or, for me, the present). So here's an overview of what everyday life was like for Cindy and Albert (whom you will undoubtedly call some cute-but-kind-of-annoying names coined by Auntie Danielle's older and more precocious children and about which I harbor not the least bit of resentment, even though she has always gotten to do everything first because she's older and a part of me maybe thought we would outgrow that at some point in our lives).


First of all, it's important to know that Cindy's hands get cold easily. Luckily, Albert has uncommonly warm armpits, so if they stick together, they can both achieve something like a reasonable temperature. And isn't that what true love is all about?

Secondly, your grandfather has a real fondness for measuring. He can hardly enter a new room without taking down its dimensions, in case he might need them in the future to resize a piece of furniture or make adjustments to his tax records.


Third, it should be noted that your mother's abiding love for beer can be traced directly to these two*.


Finally, I feel it is my duty as a communicator of truth to confess that your grandfather is so averse to the thought of waste that, upon removing a cracked wooden toilet seat from a bathroom in his house, he added said seat to the fireplace, that it might have a second life as part of our heating fuel.


I wish that incident had been a dream, but alas! When I awakened the next morning, my digital images offered no such balm to my mind. I hope this post gave you some things to think about, children. Like maybe how it might be kind of nice if it turns out we adopted you.


*I almost typed "these two lushes," but if they're both lushes, wouldn't that make me a double lush? And lord only knows what that makes you, children. Wait a second. Where did you say you were going tonight with Poni and Coaster**?

**Based on current trends, I can only assume children's names will get weirder and weirder in the future.

It's Mesh Jersey Season Again. (Sigh.)

It was a warm March here in Carbondale, and I'm sorry to report that the weather has dictated that it is officially mesh jersey season again. This means that, barring extraordinary circumstances (e.g. the state of Illinois passes a law prohibiting mesh jerseys), your father will wear nothing else until the first frost.

I think I preferred the phase where he dressed as a little old lady waiting for the bus.

Or when he pretended to be a high-powered businessman with an invisible cell phone.

Or even when he was a not-quite-sexy, brooding West Coast philosopher.

But I guess I can't complain. At least he's grown out of his non-traditional headgear phase.

Beautiful Things in Jars.

Sometimes your father makes fun of me because I have a hard time recycling glass jars when I'm finished with them, mostly because I think they're too beautiful to give up.

He allows me to drink out of them without comment, but when I try to save more than we need for a reasonably sized set of glasses, he starts to make comments.



But John! See how much more beautiful things look in glass jars!


How could anyone resist that?